that.

The Russian gunners were well drilled.  There was none of that crackling sound I have often heard in the American War and other places, where one gun goes a little ahead and the others follow, having the effect of a bunch of fire-crackers popping in quick succession.

In such case the smoke of the first gun obscures the aim of the rest.  The Russian Artillery at Balaclava went off at the word of command, all together.  One tremendous volley was heard with flashes of flame through the rolling smoke.  While they reloaded the smoke lifted so that they could see to take aim again.  There were probably twenty cannon at our right firing at us, and two batteries—twelve guns—in front.  The batteries at the left on the Fedioukine Heights were in action, but their fire probably did not affect the first lines.  Their fire was directed on the Chasseurs d’Afrique, who moved toward them simultaneously with our move forward.  The direction was such, however, that the shells would fall among the supports, Colonel Douglas’ and Lord Paget’s lines.  If we had been moving over uneven ground we should have had some slight protection in the necessary uncertainty of aim of the guns, but moving as we did in compact bodies on smooth ground directly in range, the gunners had an admirable target and every volley came with terrible effect.

There is a natural instinct to dodge cannon balls.  In such fire as we were under it changed to an impulse to hurry.  There was no time to look right or left, and the guns in front were what I looked out for.  They were visible as streaks of fire about two feet long, and a foot thick in the centre of a gush of thick white smoke, marking about every three hundred yards of the way, as they would reload in 30 or 40 seconds.  The last volley went off when we were close on them.  The flame, the smoke, the roar were in our faces.  It is not an exaggeration to compare the sensation to that of riding into the mouth of a volcano, but those who did not fall were through the guns in an instant and full of fight.  The action of the scattered troops behind the battery and on the way back was sufficient proof that they were not frightened or demoralized, even by the proceeding—unheard of for Cavalry—of attacking batteries in front.

Before we reached the guns every officer of my squadron, the second, was either killed or wounded, leaving no one to command us.

Thirty of the men followed Troop Sergeant Major O’Hara, and fifteen followed Colonel Mayow, chief of Cardigan’s Staff.  As I said before the 13th Light Dragoons were so scattered, that a group did not enter the enemy’s lines together.  The 11th Hussars was ordered to support us, the 17th Lancers, and we never saw them in the fight.  Colonel Douglas, 11th Hussars, Lord George Paget, 4th Light Dragoons, Colonel Shewell, 8th Hussars, all managed to keep groups of their commands together, to enter the line of guns.  Lord Paget commanded the 4th Light Dragoons and 8th Hussars, yet he lost the 8th and found the 11th Hussars (our supports).  The ride down the valley could not have occupied five minutes.  I could have run it on foot in seven minutes, as I was champion runner in those days, but the formation of the brigade with which we started had been destroyed, probably within three minutes.

Our arrival at the battery silenced it instantly, and the gunners began to try to move the cannon away.  The gospel of Russian fighting was always to save the guns.

My first thought after we were through the line was to look for an officer to see what we were to do, I saw Lord Cardigan at first but I had no impulse to join him.  I think no British soldier ever had.  He lead 670 and none relied on him.  I saw troopers riding past him to the right and left.  He was about 50 yards beyond the guns on their extreme left.  I turned to look for some one of my own regiment and mistook Lieutenant Jarvis, of the 13th Dragoons, for one of my officers, as the uniforms of both regiments being very similar.  Lieutenant (now Major) Jarvis is, I believe, still living.  He was about 200 yards to my left front, riding to his right towards a cannon that was retreating to the rear.  I galloped up to him and informed him that Lord Cardigan was above, pointing my sword to the place, my lance having been shot away at the last volley as we charged the guns.  He replied “Never mind, let’s capture that gun!”  We raced towards it.  He said, “Cut down the gunners!”  He shot one of the horse’s in the head bringing it to a sudden stop.  The gunners disappeared between the horses and gun-carriage as we slashed at them.  We both dismounted and took out the dead horse while more of the Brigade gathered about to assist us.  Private John Smith, who died in a London Workhouse about the end of January, 1899, mounted one of the horses attached to the gun, and I believe there is another soldier living who mounted another horse of the gun.

We started back off the field at a gallop with the mounted cannon, and were near the place where I had seen Lord Cardigan, when a large body of Cossacks charged, who appeared from behind a hill and surrounded our group.  I was riding on the right of the gun, the direction in which the Cossacks attacked us.  In the melee I got through the wrong end and had to ride back again down the valley.  I was pursued by seven of them until they fairly chased me into a body of Russian Cavalry with its back to me.  There was no alternative but to ride through or surrender to the Cossacks.  I put spurs to my horse and bolted into the line.  I got through with a knock on the head from a Russian officer, that would have wounded me but for my dress cap, which I eventually lost, but the lines saved it.  More members of the Light Brigade were riding about—some of them wounded—fighting as best they could.

Corporal Hall, of my own troop, had his lance trailing about and covered with blood.  I told him to throw it away and wanted to pick it up myself, as I needed one, but there was no time.  Hall was captured and died of amputation of a leg.

During the melee, about 40 stragglers of the Brigade were driving a line of Russian Hussars down the valley in close column.  I rode in the rear of them and began to order the men back.  I ordered Private Clifford of my own troop to halt, instead of which he charged into the solid column and was cut and pierced to death before my eyes.  The column came to a trot, and walk, and then wheeled about.  I turned my horse about and saw a line of Lancers marching down the valley and instantly thought they were the French Lancers, as they carried flags on their lances.  I rode to them, and when within 30 yards they fired at me.  I then saw their long grey cloaks and knew they were Russian.  It was in fact the Jeropkine Lancers just formed in close line across the valley, cutting off our retreat.  I turned back to my scattered comrades, who were riding about like myself in all directions, not seeing which way to go.  I raised my sword and shouted to them to fall in.  They galloped to me from all directions, and I hastily formed them in lines, putting those with lances in front.  I believe there were eight of the 17th Lancers in the front rank, with members of other regiments forming a second line.  The Russian Lancers were not more than 40 yards from us when I ordered them to cheer and charge.  The Brigade of Russian Hussars were marching up the valley about 50 yards behind and there were Cossacks on each flank.  The Russians must have thought we were assembling to surrender, and when we yelled and charged into the centre of their line, they seemed to be paralysed.

The point of a lance through my sword hilt tore the flesh off my middle finger, and this trifling wound was the only injury I received in that immortal fight.  Three of the men in my group fell in the charge